


Please Don't Feed the Monsters

by BeneficialAddiction



Series: Boxers, Briefs, and Other Shorts [30]
Category: Hawkeye (Comics), Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dark, BAMF Clint Barton, BAMF Natasha Romanov, BAMF Phil Coulson, Budapest, Canon-Typical Violence, Don't copy to another site, M/M, Psychopathology & Sociopathy, Psychopaths In Love, Strike Team Delta, What Happened in Budapest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-15
Updated: 2019-03-15
Packaged: 2019-11-18 05:45:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,085
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18114488
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BeneficialAddiction/pseuds/BeneficialAddiction
Summary: In a world darker than ours, Clint Barton quickly comes to recognize the real monsters that walk among us.He's one of them, but that doesn't mean he has to walk the world alone.





	Please Don't Feed the Monsters

When Clint is three years old, he's afraid to go to sleep at night because the monster under the bed makes a low, growly, rumbly sound in the dark that absolutely terrifies him. 

It doesn’t take him long to figure out that it's his stomach making the noise. 

Hunger was the monster that kept him awake as a child, and that more than anything seems to be a good metaphor for life. 

Well, _his_ life anyway. 

See, as the other kids in the neighborhood grew up, they started to believe that monsters weren't real, that they were just made-up creepy creatures used to scare people too dumb to know better. Clint watches them from his perch at the top of the jungle gym and learns the first pangs of contempt for his fellows. He doesn't understand how they cannot know – it's so obvious to anyone with eyes. 

He's just turned seven when he pushes Jimmy Shaw from the top of the slide. It's not an accident, not like he tells Ms. Shelly in the Principal's Office, or like he tells Mama on the ride home when she comes to pick him up. Jimmy likes to pick on the littler kids in the grade below them, likes to pull the girls' hair and put frogs down their dresses. 

He deserved it. 

Mama believes him, Papa doesn't. 

Clint thinks maybe he knows the truth because Papa is one of them, one of the monsters. He hurts people and does bad things. He hits Mama, and he hollers, and he drinks stuff that stings Clint's nose and tongue when he tries it that first time, after Papa's passed out on the couch. 

Worse, Papa _likes_ doing all those things. 

Clint thinks maybe he understands. 

When he pushes Jimmy Shaw off the slide and hears his head hit the ground below with a heavy _thunk,_ sees the bright red that runs down the side of his face from the cut over his forehead, he feels something. 

He doesn't know it – he's only seven – but for just a moment, he takes back control of his world. 

That power is addicting. 

Three years later Clint's barely ten when he kills his father. 

He doesn't mean to, not really, he just wants to see what will happen. 

Papa's been shouting all afternoon, has blacked Mama's eye and twisted Barney's arm and managed to make Clint hate him just a little bit more, and then he starts drinking. He finishes half the bottle before hauling Mama off to the bedroom, leaving it on the splintery old coffee table in the living room. Clint knows where they keep the green stuff in the garage that smells sweet, that he once watched the neighbor's cat lick up before keeling over dead later that afternoon. He adds a splash, just a little, and drips it on the kitchen floor on the way to put it back. 

He's careful to wipe it up, but it doesn't seem to matter. 

Papa comes back, maybe ten minutes, maybe ten hours later, and finishes the bottle all up before grabbing Mama and climbing into the car. 

Clint thinks he feels it in his bones when the policemen show up and take them to the station. 'Inconclusive,' they say, and Clint doesn't know what that means but he hears them talk about too much alcohol, and a bad heart. 

Clint could have told them that. 

But he thinks maybe he has a bad heart too. 

As he grows he realizes it's not quite like Papa's, or like the other monsters he meets. Trickshot is one of them, the Swordsman is another, people who like to cause pain, who like to ruin things. They hurt people who have never done anything wrong at all, people who are good, and Clint feels his own dark monster grow bigger and blacker and angrier every time Trick whips him, every time he watches Jacque grab the tiny Russian acrobat Ekaterina and drag her to his personal train car. 

He feeds it. 

In the dark, quiet hours when the circus is still, he feeds his monster with wicked thoughts and dangerous promises. 

He's seventeen when he finally kills Jacque. 

To be perfectly fair, the sword swallower had tried to kill him first, but Clint had provoked him. 

He'd known how to do it, exactly what it would take, because for some reason something in him still needs an excuse. He threatens to tell Old Man Carson just what he and Trick have been doing all those years, accepts the knife in his shoulder as his due, then yanks the blade out and drives it into Jacque's heart. 

He doesn't miss. 

He strings the man up from the acrobats' platform, leaves him spinning in slow, lazy circles, streaming lines of ruby red onto the dusty floor beneath his boots. The circus finds the body stiff and cold the next morning and Carson orders Trick and the Strongman to get rid of it, and nobody dares even look in Clint's direction, Clint, who's shoulder is as stiff as the corpse with bruising and self-sewn stitches. He watches from the bleachers with the same cold contempt that's been growing all his life, and doesn't react at all when Ekaterina finds him later and presses a kiss to his cheek. 

He didn't do it for her, not really. 

Trick doesn't try to beat him again. 

That seems as good a time as any to leave the circus. Becoming a gun-for-hire and selling his services to any shadowy figure for a price didn't exactly do much to improve his morality, though, to be fair, he wasn't exactly trying for improvement. He kept his code – no dogs, no kids, no truly good people – but anyone else really, anyone with a blacklist, anyone else with red in their ledger... 

He's not particularly emotionally attached to this code. He doesn't really _care_ about it per se – he can be persuaded to take almost any job by the right words, the right number of zeroes. 

And yet, on the other hand... 

Well. 

A man’s got to have _some_ principals after all, even if he is only a monster. 

Probably for the best, anyway. A couple of years later, when he finds himself celebrating his twenty-first birthday alone in a shitty little studio apartment in Hell’s Kitchen with a box of pizza and a beer, nothing of much worth or much good around him, he’s glad that he’s not particularly attached to anything. 

Otherwise he might miss his brother, or the homey way the house smelled when mama had managed to scrape up enough money for a real supper. 

He might wish he had family, or friends, or the capacity to love, and end up feeling sorry for himself. 

As it is he doesn’t, and that’s fine by him. 

Two weeks after that, he’s hauling ass across a tarred rooftop with an Agent of SHIELD on his heels, and his life changes to the sound of a gunshot.

**AVAVA**

Phillip J Coulson’s life begins much like any other child’s.

Well, any white, upper-middle class male child’s. 

He’s born into a nuclear family that has just enough money to flaunt a little bit of wealth, taught to eat with his elbows off the table and to play tennis for his private school’s travelling team. His parents indulge his whims so long as he sticks to their expectations – boys will be boys of course, but not where they might risk disgracing the family in public – and naturally he’ll be going to an Ivy League law school. 

Anyone might count themselves lucky to be raised up in the sort of family and situation that he was. 

Phillip Coulson does not. 

He starts to rebel early and when he does, he does it all the way. He dyes his hair, gets two silver hoops put through his lower lip, and picks up a leather jacket at a thrift store, then promptly gets suspended for hot-wiring the dean’s Mustang convertible. His parents think he’s just going through a phase, but there’s something more simmering beneath the white-washed sort of piety he lives in, and he absolutely cannot bear it. 

He manages to graduate from a public school outside of Manhattan, and by that time his mother and father have gone through a bitter divorce marked by the same cold unfeelingness that rides in Phil’s own chest. His older sisters are the only two that escape the mess; one a successful ballet dancer and the other a successful CFO, both happily married and far away when it all comes tumbling down. Phil doesn’t care – he'd seen it coming from a mile off – and promptly walks himself to the nearest recruiting station the day he turns eighteen. 

He goes from simple Army grunt to a full-blown Ranger leading his own squad within a handful of intense years, and there he learns who he truly is. Cold, calculating, cunning, competent; he thrives on the adrenaline risk of missions that should be near-impossible. He does good work and some serious damage, and earns himself a reputation that catches the interest of several different agencies, but it’s one Nicholas R. Fury who sells him on SHIELD. 

He doesn’t give a damn what vices his agents harbor, so long as it doesn’t interfere with their efficiency. 

Efficiency Phil can provide. 

To say that he delights in the organization that is the Strategic Homeland Intervention Enforcement and Logistics Division is an understatement. Inside the walls of their New York headquarters, a different kind of law reigns, one that is primitive and primal in ways that feel more natural to him than any of the Uppercrust Society he’d been raised to revere. As a whole, ruthlessness and initiative are valued above most other things, and what might be considered assault or even murder on the streets is considered missions-readiness evaluation or simply doing away with a liability. 

Phil does more than his fair share of strengthening the ranks and thinning the herd in his day. By the time he’s made a Level 6 handler he’s got quite the reputation riding on his heels, one that he’s particularly proud of. Junior agents brawl and battle and fall all over themselves to be taken on by the infamous Phil Coulson, the same way they do for May and Maria and Sitwell, but he only takes on the best of them in return. 

Puts him in a bit of hot water truth-be-told, because three full classes have graduated since he’s last taken on an asset. He argues the hell out of it with Fury, and only mostly-wins the fight because of his track record of turning promising probies into the best specialists SHIELD has, but he’s still given his marching orders and is expected to follow them. He haunts the upper levels for two weeks, watching the juniors with a growing sense of despair, and then without warning Sitwell gets a hit on Hawkeye and drags him into headquarters, bleeding and hissing like a viper. 

Phil takes one look at the scrawny archer, all dirty hair and visible ribs and long, ropey muscle, kneeling on the front lobby linoleum with his hands double-cuffed behind his back and his eyes hidden behind a torn length of bloody fabric, and barely suppresses a snarl. 

“If you want him he’s all yours,” Sitwell growls, bristling despite his words as Phil advances on him at a slow stalk. “He may be the World’s Best Shot, but he’s also the World’s Biggest Pain in the Ass. Little bastard tried to gnaw my arm off.” 

Behind him on the floor, Hawkeye grins and licks his teeth – there's still blood between them, and Phil can practically taste it on his own tongue, _wants_ to taste it. 

Rumbling low in his chest, he circles around his friend and places himself between the bound and blinded marksman and the agents who’ve gathered to watch, bares his own teeth in silent warning. 

“Oh fuck off Coulson!” Sitwell huffs, focused on rolling up his tattered left sleeve, and all around them the onlookers flinch, because Sitwell rarely resorts to F-bombs, much preferring the more creative curses of foreign languages. “Get him out of my sight – I'm going to medical for a tetanus.” 

Agents scatter as he stalks away, bitching and muttering under his breath, but Phil waits until the elevator doors close behind him before he turns away. Leaning down, he grabs Hawkey by the arm – bicep surprisingly thick for such a skinny punk – and drags him to his feet. 

His skin burns under Phil’s fingers, and he can smell the fever on him. 

“Get up.” 

Hawkeye doesn’t react to his growl, nor to being dragged upright. He doesn’t stumble when Phil shoves him forward, graceful and steady on his feet, and doesn’t try to pull away from his hold, doesn’t try to fight. He simply goes where he’s moved, no more, no less, and with the most smug expression Phil has ever seen on the face of someone whose hands are fixed behind his back and whose sight has been stolen from him. 

It’s the hottest goddamn thing he’s seen since Sitwell got quietly pissed with a Russian consulate member and blew up their motorcade. 

Dragging Hawkeye up the hallway, he glares at any agent who dares to follow, to linger, and shoves him roughly into his office. He gets the door closed and locked before anyone can stop him – though he has no illusions that Fury isn’t already on the hunt – and turns around again to find Hawkeye kneeling on the rug in front of his desk, knees spread wide in a lewd display. 

Phil’s cock throbs. 

“Get up!” he snarls, anger flashing hot across his nerves, and not only because he’s had to repeat himself. 

“Why?” Hawkeye asks, smarmy and sarcastic. “So you can knock me down again?” 

Reaching down, Phil grabs the brat by the front of his filthy t-shirt and drags him to his feet one more time, shoves him back against the wall and plants a hand in the center of his chest to keep him there. 

“You’re Hawkeye,” he growls, dark and rough as he crowds him against the wall. “You don’t kneel for me, you don’t kneel for Sitwell, you don’t kneel for _anyone_ – do you understand me?” 

Even beneath the blindfold he can see the surprised expression on the young man’s face, and god, he _is_ young, stunned. 

It makes Phil’s blood boil. 

“What are you, some kind of fanboy?” he asks spitefully, but Phil can hear him puzzling it out in his head. 

“God damn right I am,” he answers, experiencing the thrill of Hawkeye’s heart pounding beneath his palm. “I was there that day in Cairo.” 

A beat of stunned silence passes. 

“Take the blindfold off.” 

Phil cocks an eyebrow, bites back a grin and tries not to sound too eager. 

“Are you going to hit me if I do?” 

“Yes.” 

“Promise?” 

Hawkeye’s nostrils flare as he tries to catch Phil’s scent, his tongue flashing out to wet his lower lip as his chest heaves under Phil’s hand. 

_“Take the blindfold off.”_

Phil doesn’t need to be told a third time. 

Hawkeye doesn’t need to take a swing to hit him; his gaze packs one hell of a punch – bright eyes all kaleidoscope-colored, that see everything and far too much. He takes one look at Phil and must see all the way to his god-damn soul, because a grin curls slowly and sinfully across his face. 

“What’s your name, suit?” 

“Phil Coulson,” he replies, dropping his shoulders to broaden his stance, even as he keeps Hawkeye pressed firmly back against the wall. “I’m a Level Six Agent of SHIELD, and I’d like to make you an offer.” 

Hawkeye looks him over – a long, lingering perusal – and his grin broadens. 

“Clint Barton,” he smirks, cocky as hell. “You have my attention, Phil Coulson Agent of SHIELD.”

**AVAVA**

Clint does hit him, eventually.

Where’s the fun if he knows it’s coming? 

Besides, the guy seems to be looking forward to it and Clint’s always been a contrary bastard, so he saves it but he doesn’t forget. 

Three months later, when he’s blasted through basic training, destroyed multiple standing records, and successfully completed the first mission he’s been sent on, he skips medical and stalks down to the canteen, finds Coulson standing in the middle of the floor with a cup of coffee in his hand. He’s speaking with Sitwell, who has his back to Clint and who still looks wary around him, and he doesn’t seem notice Clint marching up until he’s already in his face. 

He projects the punch, but Coulson seems both surprised and resigned to what’s about to happen and doesn’t try to stop it. Clint smashes him one right across the jaw, hard enough that he staggers back - but he doesn’t spill a drop of his coffee. 

Clint’s working hard to stop himself from hauling the man back upright and kissing the hell out of him right there in the caf when he feels the barrel of a gun pressed to the back of his skull. 

“God damn it Barton!” Sitwell snarls, thumbing off the safety of the gun in the sudden, deafening silence of the cafeteria. “You’re not worth the trouble!” 

“Yes he is.” 

Coulson says it calmly, with no emotion at all, like he’s making a simple statement of fact with nothing whatsoever at stake. Straightening up, he squares his feet like Clint might try again, wiping the blood from his chin with the back of his hand. 

“I’m better than that,” Clint grits out between clenched teeth, anger boiling up hot and hard. He doesn’t spell it out but he’s sure that Coulson will know he means the mission; the pathetic milk-run that could have been accomplished without him by any two agents still wet behind the ears. 

“You’re god damn right you are,” Coulson agrees, and it would be patronizing if there weren’t a hungry, heated expression on his face. 

Clint narrows his eyes, looks him up and down, vaguely aware that there’s still a gun pressed to the back of his head. 

“Don’t test me like that again.” 

“You’ve already passed,” Coulson grins. 

Pressing his coffee cup into Jasper’s stomach until he lowers his gun from Clint’s skull and takes it, Coulson jerks his chin and gestures for Clint to follow him. 

“Come with me. There’s an op in Peru with your name all over it, but you’re not going if you’re still pulling your punches.” 

Clint smirks and follows after, unsurprised that Coulson almost sounds amused.

**AVAVA**

For the next three days they spend a couple of hours each afternoon beating the holy hell out of each other in the gym until medical benches both of them for a month. Fury gets pissed and puts them on admin duty for two more as punishment, but they’re shipped out to South America well before their time-out is over.

Clint holds his own during those three days, even learns a few tricks from the sparring matches, but the feral, satisfied grin on Coulson’s face as they head to the quinjet together for the first time is a far better reward than any he might have chosen for himself.

**AVAVA**

He likes SHIELD.

They don’t pretend like monsters aren’t real, like people aren’t the ones with teeth and claws and black thoughts. They employ them and work against them in equal measure, and if Clint is more zealous in his pursuit of their enemies than a normal man might be, no one says anything, at least not to his face. He becomes a formidable asset and he enjoys the wide berth he’s given by other agents, juniors and seniors alike. 

The only one that actively seeks him out is Coulson. 

He still doesn’t know why that is. 

He’s the only one that takes the time to understand, and because he understands Clint he knows how to use him, how to care for him as a weapon, aim and fire him and bring him back in for a good cleaning. 

They start sleeping together two years after Coulson drags him up off the floor and throws him against a wall, like he can hammer some self-respect into him by sheer force of will. Clint’s pretty sure he’s still trying, that that’s what he’s doing when he pounds him through the mattress or bends him over the desk in his office. They bite and scratch at each other, grip tight enough to bruise, leave marks that last for days afterward, and if Clint could drink the man’s blood and consume his soul and sink beneath his very skin he would. 

They understand each other in ways that should be impossible. 

Coulson knows exactly where to strike to put him on his ass when he needs a knock upside the head, knows exactly which tender places to jab at when Clint’s being too stubborn to do something that needs to be done. He usually sees the blatant manipulation as it’s happening – _Hawkeye_ – and it usually pisses him off for a day or two after, but the make-up sex is incredible and sometimes Phil even lets Clint tie him to the bed for it. It’s angry and it’s aggressive and it’s real in ways that all the fantasies aren’t, and it’s safe because when it’s over they’re both still there. 

Clint is the hound, sent out to run his prey to ground, and Coulson is the hunter, waiting when he comes back in to the fire with food and pride and a few gruff words of praise all the more precious for being hard-earned.

**AVAVA**

It’s December, and freezing cold when Fury sends them out after the Widow.

After chasing her across half the city, Clint decides that’s fitting. 

Widow, hell, she’s a Russian wolf if he ever saw one, lean and lone and snarling mad when she’s finally brought to bay. She nearly knocks his head clean off with one swipe when he comes into the alley after her, having abandoned his comms and bow on a nearby rooftop. 

Coulson’s gonna kill him for that. 

She doesn’t come quietly, even if she’d _let him_ follow her into that alley. She fights, viciously, and Clint would have been disappointed if she hadn’t. She breaks his wrist, breaks the skin when she sinks her teeth into his bicep, and in return Clint breaks her ankle, rips out a bright, thick hank of her hair. It’s hot and fast and furious, and over nearly as soon as it had begun, more tests passed, more strength judged. 

She loops an arm around his shoulders and lets him help her back to the safehouse, both of them limping and neither of them speaking, teeth gritted against the pain. They patch each other up and he doesn’t mention SHIELD until she asks, until she demands to know why someone like him would submit to anyone. 

She looks stunned when he says he hasn’t. 

He tells her about how Coulson had cussed him out for waiting quietly on his knees at Jasper Sitwell’s feet when he was brought in, how he’s pushed him and pushed him and pushed him to be bigger and badder and more competent ever since. How neither he nor SHIELD has ever tried to clip Clint’s wings or file down his sharp edges, but instead let him hone them razor sharp on experience and then given him leave to slash away at will as long as he keeps the carnage within the limits of his mission’s objectives. 

The look in her eye when he’s finished is all eager hunger, and he doesn’t wait for more than that to put in a call to Coulson and let him know where they are, to ask him to pick up Clint’s bow on his way over. 

That more than anything seems to tell the Widow all she needs to know about Clint’s handler, and when Coulson steps through the door, takes in the room in one sweeping glance, stalks across the floor and kisses him hard enough to bruise, hand loose around his throat, she knows all she needs to know about him as Clint’s partner. 

It takes three months for their wounds to heal, and Coulson punishes them with paperwork and drills the entire time. When they’ve recovered to his satisfaction, he takes them both to the mats and punishes them there as well, and while he doesn’t trounce the Widow as badly as he had Clint when he’d first come in, he holds his own and earns another piece of her respect by the time they’re finished. 

Not long after they become Strike Team Delta, the three of them together, and while it’s still Clint and Phil, suddenly it’s Clint and Phil and Natasha too, and he’s never known two people more like him, two people that fit against his edges so well as they do. Growing up, knowing what he was and what others were, he’d always thought that monsters were meant to be alone, but seeing how many there really are, seeing how they can look and act and sound just like anyone else, he understands how misguided that assumption was. 

Just because he’s a monster doesn’t mean he’s alone. 

He’d just needed to find other monsters like him. 

He finds that in Phil, and in Natasha, and they feed each other like meat to lions every time they go out on a mission, every time they fight their way back from the brink of destruction, every time they even unbeatable odds. 

Budapest happens and tests them all, tests their devotion to each other and the true depths of their cold, steel willingness to do damage. The Widow is poisonously angry, Coulson ruthlessly destructive, and Clint murderous in all the worst ways, and it feels like letting go of every last shred of control he’s gathered around himself from the time he knew what he was to the moment he takes a knife to the gut. 

His upper arm’s been shattered by a bullet. 

His bowels haven’t been perforated but he’s losing blood fast. 

Coulson calls in an air strike against orders as they huddle together behind a concrete wall, Natasha’s hands keeping pressure on Clint’s wounds as he chokes down the pain and bites back every whimper and scream threatening to claw its way out of his throat, threatening to reveal their position to the men searching for them. They steal a truck and make it to the city limits just in time to watch the city go up in flames, and Clint manages to stay conscious long enough to watch it burn down to ash.

**AVAVA**

They’re benched for six months for what happened in Budapest.

Fury’s so pissed he won’t speak a single word to them but Coulson’s just as angry, and not one of them gives a damn. 

When Clint’s recovered enough they all jet to Bora Bora together and check into a two-bedroom over-water bungalow in an adults-only, all-inclusive resort. They leave their cell phones behind, use civilian identities not registered with SHIELD, and they stay there for three full weeks. It’s the first time Clint’s been completely off SHIELD’s radar since he started, the first real vacation he’s ever been on, and he, Phil, and Natasha indulge like it will be the last. They spend those three weeks tanning in the sun, swimming in the ocean, eating and drinking and dancing all night, and when they finally exhaust themselves and trip back to their rooms, Phil drags Clint down onto the bed with him and makes him see stars. 

Some nights Natasha makes herself scarce, reappearing in the morning with a smile hidden at the corners of her mouth. 

Some nights she joins them, and it’s like it’s never been any other way. 

When it’s over and they walk back into SHIELD bronzed and smug and sated not an agent there seems able to meet their eyes. 

Fury gives it all up as a bad job and never mentions any of it again – the op, the direct refusal of orders, _the city itself,_ and he sure as hell never mentions the three weeks after when his three best agents successfully disappeared off the face of the earth.

**AVAVA**

Budapest becomes a part of the legend that is Strike Team Delta, and junior and senior agents alike know better than to insult one member of the triad, for knowing that they’ll have to deal with the other two. Clint’s afforded a wider berth than he’s ever had, Coulson even more respect, Natasha even more admiration, and every one of them appreciates the consequences.

Once and only once a cocky junior makes the mistake of actually invoking Budapest by name several years later, hissing spitefully in Coulson’s direction in an effort to excuse his own failure to follow orders. Clint steps up, ready to put him in his place when he gets a double barrel of his own, accused of being nothing more than a cheap hired gun, not worth half his own press. The next thing anyone knows the junior is on the ground with a broken arm and a knife in his belly, and Coulson and Natasha stand over him with calm, disdainful expressions on their faces as he screams. 

“Agent Barton completed his missions objectives and made it out of Budapest alive with a fractured humerus and five-inch-deep knife wound to the lower abdomen,” Coulson says flatly, with no inflection at all as Clint watches on, rock hard in his pants. “He survived a fifty-two-minute wait for medical aid. Of course, he had the Widow there to help apply pressure.” 

He turns to Natasha and raises an eyebrow, but she shakes her head. 

“He’s too loud,” she complains, entirely unimpressed. “He’d have brought every henchmen within three miles down on us – Barton didn’t make a sound.” 

Coulson makes a noncommittal humming sound and turns his back, leaving the agent bleeding on the gym floor as several onlookers run for medical. Natasha follows, and together they leave for one of their nearby safehouses, the one with the shower big enough for three. Phil and Natasha press Clint back against the tiles and smear the junior agent’s blood over his bare skin until they’re all washed clean, then Natasha steps out to curl and dry her hair at the sink while Phil fucks Clint against the wall.

**Author's Note:**

> I don't even know guys. I mostly wanted an excuse to write Phil and Natasha hurting another agent in Clint's defense...


End file.
